


Simulacrum

by AsheRhyder



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ambiguous Continuity, Ensemble Cast, M/M, Metafiction Jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-16 01:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AsheRhyder/pseuds/AsheRhyder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is protective of the Inquisition... and its Inquisitor. It's best not to underestimate a Necromancer's devotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I Did Warn You"

**Author's Note:**

> "If you are knocked unconscious, a spirit you control takes on your likeness and fights on your behalf for a short time. The spirit draws magic directly from the fade, casting spells without cost. You cannot be revived by any means until the spirit leaves."  
> \- Description of Simulacrum (Necromancer Passive Ability)

    In Dorian’s defense, he did warn the Inquisitor about it. Granted, Trevelyan was on his way to see Helisma and laden down with the mountain of bits left behind by every other bandit, Red Templar, and wild animal on the Storm Coast that thought it was a good idea to go after the heavily armored warrior; his attention may have been slightly less intent than usual.

    “Inquisitor,” Dorian said, sliding up beside him as smooth as a Fade Step and gently steadying a pair of Deepstalker Claws that threatened to fall.

    “Dorian,” Trevelyan smiled gratefully. “Did you need something?”

    “Nothing that requires immediate handling,” he replied lightly. “Just a polite little head’s up, since you do so enjoy bringing me along to all those frozen wastelands you southerners call countryside.”

    “I could take Solas or Vivienne, if you really don’t want to go.” Trevelyan frowned.

    “And deprive you of my company? I couldn’t possibly. Besides, if you take Solas, his dour expression is liable to freeze in place, and I think Cole was finally getting him to smile. I wouldn’t want to set the poor boy back.” Dorian laughed, but sobered quickly. “Anyway, I prefer when I can see to your safety myself, and to that end, my dear Inquisitor, I learned a new trick. I thought you might like to be aware so it doesn’t take you by surprise the next time we’re on the field of battle.”

    “Is it more explosions?” The Inquisitor asked, grinning. “Or is it more of that creepy fear-spirit stuff?” He tried to gesture and nearly upset the careful stack of Red Templar armor that spent the last few weeks cluttering up the inventory. Dorian righted it again with a fond smile.

    “No, it’s not like Horror. Hopefully it will be a bit more useful against things we can’t terrify.”

    They arrived at Helisma’s research table, and Trevelyan dropped the entire mess with a sigh.

    “Sounds great, Dorian. Next time we’re in the field, show me, all right?” He put a warm hand on Dorian’s exposed shoulder. “I’ve got to go over some reports about our last mission with Commander Cullen, or I’d love to hear more about it now. Andraste’s flaming knickers, it’s like we can’t go on a simple operation without every sort of complication coming out of the stonework.”

    “Of course, Inquisitor.” The mage half-bowed, mostly in jest. “Do try to take some rest before we next venture out, hmm? I very much doubt that Emprise du Lion is a pleasant place for a nap.”

  
    So, technically, Dorian did warn the Inquisitor. But also... not.

  
    Emprise du Lion was every bit as Dorian predicted it would be: cold, treacherous paths, cold, Red Templars everywhere, cold, darkspawn, and oh yes, did he mention the cold? Even Trevelyan, bastion of good will and optimism, was getting testy.

    “Maybe we should have finished up the Exalted Plains,” he grumbled, scowling at the jagged spires of red lyrium standing out like blood on the snow. “Or Crestwood. Hawke keeps saying we should go to Crestwood and meet his Warden. But Crestwood is rainy...”

    “You dragged us all out here, Inquisitor. It would be rude to just turn around and leave now.” Dorian paused. “Let’s do it.”

    “Screaming under stone, crystal creeping in. Hard to breathe, but someone has to know, has to come, has to hear our cries. Can’t let them be silenced. Can’t let them take anymore,” Cole murmured, fast and frantic. “Someone has to help.”

    The Iron Bull and Dorian exchanged looks behind the Inquisitor’s back: Bull’s smirking and battle-hungry, Dorian’s resigned and raw like it always was when Cole unearthed irreparable pain.

    “And we will,” said Trevelyan, turning around to face his team. The Bull and Dorian cleared their faces and blinked at him innocently. “All right guys, let’s get ‘em!”  

  
    The Inquisitor’s boyish idealism was among his more attractive qualities, Dorian thought, namely because 9 times out of 10 it worked out for him. That 10th, time, however, was a real son of a bitch.

  
    They were almost to a campsite. From the top of the hill they could see the funny-looking equipment left by the first scouts to mark a defensible location, but getting there required careful navigation between walls of ice and red lyrium. They had one healing potion between the four of them, and Dorian was the only one who wasn’t in dire need of it.

    “Bull should have it,” Trevelyan tried to argue. “His armor covers less than mine, so he gets hurt easier.”

    “Yeah, boss, but I’m tougher overall, and if you’ve got strength to keep your shield up, you can hold ‘em off the ‘Vint long enough for him to get me back on my feet.” The Iron Bull countered easily.

    “Well, I’m not taking it. Cole, you drink it.”

    Cole stared down at the vial without opening it.

    “I don’t see how that helps either of you,” he said slowly.

    “No, see, because then we won’t argue--” Trevelyan stepped around an icy outcropping and nearly cracked helmets with a Red Templar.

    Dorian dropped a static cage blindly, catching half of the enemy’s number by the sound of the electric discharge and the shouting. The Bull charged around the corner with a laugh that was almost a bellow. Cole disappeared in a puff of smoke. The Inquisitor hauled his shield to block a volley of crimson shards from a Horror. Then a Behemoth lumbered out, and after that, things got a little bit... fuzzy.

    Dorian managed to string a chain of lightning between the Behemoth and the Horror, and then -

    -sharp, burning pain in his back-  
        -through him, red singing through him-  
            -whispers in the pain-  
                -darkness creeping in-  


    He had enough time for three thoughts as he sank to the snow-covered ground:

        1.) _Kaffas._ Of course there’s a Shadow.  
        2.) This is going to be cold.  
        3.) **PROTECT THEM.**

    Unlike the first two, something heard the third one.

  
    “Dorian’s down!” The Iron Bull yelled, smashing a Templar’s red-lyrium crowned skull into gooey, red-gray mess.

    “What? He was in the best shape of all of us!” The Inquisitor growled, reeling under another volley of red spikes that kept him from closing in on the Horror.

    “We’ve got a Shadow,” The Bull grunted. His one eye locked on some shift in the snow, and he brought his maul down on the stealthy Shadow just before it could catch the Inquisitor in the back. The Horror, taking advantage of the distraction, started whatever terrible thing it did to the Templar Guardsman to make a new Horror, and Cole popped up behind it in a flurry of blades, downing both before it could finish.

    The Behemoth lunged at the two warriors, who spun apart just in time to see a gout of fire hit the creature in its misshapen chest. The fireball was immediately followed by an onslaught of flaming bolts, and then a massive bolt of lightning dropped from the cloudless sky. The Iron Bull laughed and joined in the assault after the first blaze, and Cole and the Inquisitor weren’t far behind.

    In a few seconds the Behemoth was crumbling on the ground, and they turned to congratulate their mage.

    “Thanks, Dorian--” Trevelyan started, but froze.  


    Dorian’s body was sprawled in the snow where the Shadow dropped him. There was another Dorian standing in front of him, one made of swirling magic the color of spirits, transparent staff grasped tightly in transparent his hands.

    He looked over them with a satisfied smile before the familiar-but-not-quite-right features turned wistful. One hand let go of the staff, reached out for Trevelyan, and then--

    he disappeared.  


    “Dorian? Dorian!” No one would have expected the Inquisitor’s deep voice to reach that pitch, but it did. He ran over to the unconscious mage, dropping shield and sword in the snow as he went.

    Dorian was too still for a moment, and in that moment the great Herald of Andraste was reduced to a frightened young man. The face that did not flinch to see the aftermath of battlefields crumpled, cringed, cowered.

    Cole stepped forward and wordlessly offered the last healing potion. Trevelyan snapped out of his shock and popped the cork with trembling hands and breathed a sigh of relief to see Dorian’s eyes begin to flutter beneath the lids even before the first sip. The lips under the snow-crusted mustache moved to shape the Inquisitor’s name - not his title, not his family’s name, his given name - but no sound came out, and the potion was quickly forced down his throat.

    “So, what the fuck was that?” The Iron Bull asked almost casually as they got Dorian to his feet.

    “Unless I’m mistaken, it was one of those delightfully roguish Shadows putting his dirty spikes through my favorite robe.” The mage sighed. “He could have at least had the decency to buy me dinner first. How barbaric.”

    “Not that - we all know you leave your back open like an amateur--”

    “We’re in a bottleneck here; I think you could take some responsibility as the front line for letting him slip past you. I’m trying to manage crowd control--”

    “They turn invisible, and hey, I still hit it anyway--”

    “Enough!” Trevelyan shouted, voice cracking. Both mage and warrior stared at him, half surprised and half abashed. Trevelyan didn’t tend to shout, at least not at people he wasn’t immediately trying to behead.

    “Too close, so close, so bright and warm, don’t let go, don’t go, don’t--” Cole said, silencing himself quickly as the Inquisitor turned an exasperated glare on him. “Sorry.”

    “It’s all right.” Trevelyan sighed. “Dorian, what was that thing you did?”

    “You’ll have to be more specific. I do many things, frequently wonderful and often simultaneously. It’s a skill.”

    “The thing where you cast spells while laying face down in the snow,” Bull said, watching Dorian’s eyes and hands for any trace of spirit glow.

    “I didn’t,” Dorian replied simply.

    “But we saw your spells hit the Behemoth.” Trevelyan frowned.

    “Oh! Those weren’t mine, per se. I suppose they were sort of mine, but really only in style. I didn’t cast them.”

    “Dorian--”

    “It’s a simulacrum.”

    “A what?”

    “A copy, if you will. A spirit stand-in. It can continue fighting in my place for a while in unfortunate incidents such as this.”

    “That sounds...”

    “Useful? Clever? Absolutely ingenious?”

    “...dangerous.”

    “It’s no more dangerous to you than I am, Inquisitor.” Dorian insisted. “It’s copying me - admittedly, the combination of my good looks and magical prowess is quite potent, but I’m on your side, and so is it.”

    Trevelyan’s brow creased as he stared into Dorian’s eyes, as if he’d gained soul-reading powers instead of Rift-closing ones from the Anchor. Finally he sighed and maneuvered so that he could sling Dorian’s arm over his shoulder.

    “Well, if it’s copying you, I’m probably safer with it than I am with Sera after she’s had a few.” He sighed.

    Dorian scoffed.

    “Many things are safer than Sera in her cups. Herding giants. Harvesting fresh dragon bone. Collecting those ridiculous shards laying all over Thedas in the most ridiculous places. You nearly broke your neck going after that one in the Hinterlands; don’t think I haven’t heard.”

    “On second thought, maybe I’m safer with the simulacrum than with you.”

    “Say what you will, Inquisitor. I _will_ protect you.”

  
    They made camp and trusted rest to deal with the worst, but across the Fade, the words echoed.  
  
 **I Will Protect You.**


	2. Suddenly Dragons

    It wasn’t exactly a surprise. The last week of running around the Western Approach, looking for dead Gurns and disarming traps, was the very definition of ‘intention’, so none of the party was officially taken off guard when the Abyssal High Dragon flew overhead.

    “Boss, I want you to know: you’re the best.” The Iron Bull sighed happily and drew his new axe, the result of Trevelyan’s experiments in the Undercroft.

    Trevelyan winced.

    “She’s going to attack us, isn’t she? Maker’s breath, I was just hoping to drop the bait and let Frederic watch her do her thing.”

    Dorian shook some sand from his boot and patted the Inquisitor on the shoulder.

    “There, there,” he said, unconvincingly sympathetic. “We can say Cassandra did it, and no one has to know about your violent extermination of rare local wildlife.”

    The disconsolate noise the Inquisitor made was quickly followed by the dragon’s roar, and Trevelyan’s face settled back into grim determination as he raised his shield.

 

    The Iron Bull rushed the Abyssal High Dragon as soon as she landed, and it immediately became apparent that this was not going to go the same way as their last dragon fight. The last time, it was a hard won nightmare battle with a seemingly endless stream of dragonlings and guarded defenses every few hits amid the hateful Emprise du Lion cold. This time, Bull took a massive chunk out of the Abyssal’s back leg with his first swing; not even a special technique, just a standard side blow. Cole slipped in next to him and sliced through scales to spill blood on the sand. The Inquisitor blocked a claw swipe, and Dorian threw bolts of ice, thankful they’d had the forethought to switch equipment before hand.  
 

   In almost no time, the dragon took to the sky to strafe with blasts of fire. It was a pattern most of the high dragons they encountered followed, and the party took the opportunity to regroup by the ruins as it maneuvered into position.

    “I feel really bad about this,” Trevelyan frowned, watching the dragon’s flight and taking an easy two steps to the left to avoid a fireball. “It’s like kicking nugs.”

    “You’ve killed a lot of nugs,” Dorian pointed out. “Cole’s last three armors were nugskin.”

    “For which I apologized!” Trevelyan looked more wounded by the remark on the quality of his craftsmanship than he did from the dragon. “It was the only leather I had enough of to make rogue armor. Anyway, I made him something better, now.”

    “Yes, yes, he looks very handsome in his Lurker and Phoenix scales. Resplendent, even.” Dorian tried to take a shot at the Abyssal as it flew low overhead and managed to land a couple of minor hits to the haunches.

    Cole beamed.

    “Seams, stitches, sewing, succor. Sorry, scales; protect your next bearer better than the last. This time, don’t hurt the innocent, help him help them.” Cole shuffled his feet and stretched his leathers. “The Inquisitor made them with me in mind.”

    “He’s very precious that way,” Dorian replied, almost waspishly.

    “Dragon webbing for Dorian, decorative but deceptively strong! Deflect, defend, defiant, do not die--” Cole was interrupted by the dragon landing again, to Trevelyan’s obvious relief. Under his helmet, his face burned red, and he charged to bounce a blast of fire off his shield.

 

    Barely a minute later, and the dragon was airborne again, dripping blood and screeching horrifically as it rose.

    “I mean, I just feel like a bully at this point!” Trevelyan didn’t whine, but it was close. “She hasn’t managed to properly hit me even once this whole time. Look, she didn’t even scratch the detail work!” He held up his shield, volcanic aurum forged in the Templar style, which was, as he said, unblemished.

    “It’s that guard shit,” the Iron Bull nodded, sage-like. “Get a good shield, and nothing can touch you head on.”

    “But I made this way back when we first got to the Hissing Wastes!”

    Bull and Dorian had another wordless exchange that perfectly communicated their nuanced combination of amusement, fondness, and utter disbelief in the Inquisitor’s sense of direction, the last of which brought them to the Hissing Wastes _immediately_ after reaching Skyhold.

    “They spit poison,” muttered Cole, for once digging through his own memories. “It _homes_.”

    “Incoming,” the Bull grunted, and the party stepped away from the ruins as the Abyssal skimmed the top and sent stones flying.

    Dorian Fade-Stepped out of the range of the immediate destruction, stopping by a pillar and turning to cast. It was a few steps too close, and when the pieces of crushed masonry knocked into the pillar, it toppled towards him. He barely registered the change in the shadow around him, the sound of stone shifting in sand, the heartbeat of dread that tore through him and condensed into a single thought:  


 **PROTECT THE INQUISITOR.**  
  
    “Dorian!” Trevelyan yelled, turning to see what happened to his mage. The dragon lifted a claw to rend his unguarded back, but a flicker of magic washed over him and formed a protective barrier. The claws raked down harmlessly as Dorian’s simulacrum threw him a jaunty salute with its staff in hand, and the Inquisitor spun back around to the task at hand.  
 

   It took frightfully little time to finish the Abyssal High Dragon after that. The simulacrum could cast as fast as Dorian could - faster, even, drawing magic tirelessly from the Fade for the heavy-hitting spells the human mage had to pace. It was the work of seconds, really, and then Trevelyan left his sword in the dragon’s skull and tore across the sand towards Dorian’s unconscious body and the simulacrum’s watchful eyes.

    It reached for him again, but Trevelyan didn’t notice - not consciously, not at that moment, not caught up in his own dread again.

    “You can’t keep dropping your weapon every time he gets knocked out, Boss,” the Iron Bull said, hefting the sword free. “One of these times, someone will take the opportunity to get you when your back is turned.”

    The simulacrum frowned at that, glaring at the Bull with Dorian’s expressive features.

    “Dorian? Dorian, wake up.” Trevelyan knelt beside the mage, inspecting the damage. Fortunately for Dorian, the mortar crumbled with the pillar, so instead of being crushed under several tons of centuries-old stonework, he just took a glancing blow to the head. Of course, it was still a big rock doing the glancing, but Trevelyan saw worse wounds in the Hinterlands just trying to wrangle uncooperative livestock.

    This time they even had plenty of potions, if he could just get Dorian responsive enough so that he was sure the other man wouldn’t choke.

    Behind Trevelyan, the simulacrum gave a nearly soundless sigh and vanished.

    On the ground, Dorian groaned and cracked open an eye.

    “All safe and sound?” He asked. “No scratches, scorches, or --”

    Trevelyan tipped a potion into his mouth.

    “All safe and sound, except you. Taken out by a rock this time. What do you have to say for yourself?”

    Dorian sighed dramatically and sat up.

    “Let’s not tell Sera or Varric, hmm? Or if we must, can we at least say a giant threw it?” He glanced over at Bull’s grin and Coles’ blank incomprehension. “Never mind. Let’s just be clear - that was the dragon’s fault, not mine.”

    “Dragon webbing and Fade-Touched Dawnstone,” Cole murmured, just out of their earshot. “Dragon wrapped and dragon kept, a hoard of precious--”

    “Shh, kid, let ‘em figure it out for themselves,” said the Bull, tipping the spirit boy’s hat down over his face and muffling the stream of words. Cole pulled it off and blinked up at him.

    “Why, the Iron Bull?” he asked.

    “Because when two people are that dumbshit over each other, meddling results in one of two things: Happily Ever After, or Whole Lot of Trouble.”

    “Oh,” said Cole, and then he blinked. “The Iron Bull?”

    “Yeah, kid?”

    “You don’t believe in Happily Ever After.”

    “All the more reason not to meddle.”


	3. Papa Varric Gives The Talk

Chapter 3: Papa Varric Gives The Talk  
  
    Camping in the Emerald Graves was... an experience. The place was as morbid as it was beautiful, which was to say, exceptionally damn so. It was one of the few locations in Thedas the Inquisition went that was not covered in snow, sand, an unreasonable amount of dead bodies, or some horrible combination thereof.

    “Of course,” Dorian said to Varric around the campfire, “after our dear Inquisitor has been here for a while, the corpses of his enemies will naturally accumulate exponentially.”

    “At least here it’s mostly Red Templars,” Varric replied.

    “True. It could be worse. Misguided mercenaries, bandits, or peasants. Setting fire to the unwitting pawns of unseen political machinations always leaves such a bad taste in one’s mouth.” Dorian sighed. “Our fearless leader seems to have a knack for wandering into dangerous situations without the least bit of consideration for narrative flow. He just manages to find the greatest danger and wade right in.” Personally, Dorian thought Trevelyan’s unerring instinct for being in the worst possible place was a result of their little jaunt into the future, but it was also possible that the Inquisitor’s continuous escapes from certain death were the result of fate masquerading as truly epic bad luck. “Did you know we fought a Great Bear today, and it didn’t even manage to hit him? Not ‘bounced off his shield like everything else’. I mean its massive paw went right over his head! He didn’t even duck.”   

    Varric laughed and pulled out a small notebook, in which he made a tally. Dorian leaned over to look. There were quite a lot of little marks on the page.

    “What’s all that about?” he asked. “Surely not a record of how many creatures the Inquisitor felled? Even if you include bandits and Red Templars, it looks rather high.”

    “Creatures killed, dragons slain, refugees rescued, and days saved.” Varric flipped back through a few more pages covered in tally marks. The oldest ones were boldly scrawled, taking up more space on the page before the writer started getting economic with his handwriting. “Every great act gets a mark. A few more and he’s up to level 21.”

    “What a ridiculous game.” Dorian said. “Want to bet he’ll make it before the week’s out?”

    “That’s no bet at all, Sparkler.” Varric shook his head and smiled. “But if we’re talking bets, lemme know if you and Trevelyan are going to sneak off later. Sera and Bull have a bet going on as to whether you’re too fussy to do it in the woods, and I’m supposed to be judging.”

    “I--” Dorian’s blood froze in his veins like a Winter’s Grasp gone horribly wrong. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

    “It’s no big deal, just a couple of coins. No one’s going to tease you unless you come back with leaves in your mustache. Or unless we get attacked while you’re gone. Priorities, you know.”

    “The Inquisitor and I aren’t together,” said the Altus in a voice of careful denial that was, at least in this case, absolutely genuine. Varric read it in the unbalanced tension in the man’s shoulders and the tightness of his mouth and around his eyes.

    “You mean you’re not--? At all? For real?!”

    Dorian sniffed.

    “Quite.”

    “Why?!”

    “He’s not--”

    “Whatever you’re about to say, I can guarantee you that you’re wrong.”

    “--like that.”   

    “He spent the first month in Haven flirting with anyone who’d stay still long enough to let him smile. He moped when Curly shot him down. _Moped_. People started flirting with him again just to cheer him up.”

    “He’s a very charismatic man.”

    “And he stopped flirting with anyone else as soon as the two of you came back from your romp in the future.”

    “I would imagine it can hardly be appealing to a man of his tenderness to continue such meretricious exchanges after seeing what happens to all those good, lovely people if he fails.” Dorian winced. “Too much like guilt, perhaps?”

    “We’ve picked up other people since then, Sparkler,” Varric waved away Dorian’s protest before the mage could voice it. “And don’t try to deflect with me, I know he’s still flirting with you.”  

    Dorian tried to say that it wasn’t the same, that it was just the foundation of all of their interactions since they first met, that they wouldn’t have anything to say to each other if they didn’t have those meaningless, teasing little moments, but his voice abandoned him. Varric patted him on the shoulder.

    “Just think about it. This ain’t Tevinter, and you got a whole new set of options open here. I promise, we’ll only tease you for a week; two, tops, and it’ll all be about the dopey honeymoon phase you two will be in.” The dwarf shrugged, and Dorian swallowed, cleared his throat, and donned his composure like Trevelyan donned his armor.

    “We may not be in Tevinter, but that’s all most of the Inquisition sees when they look at me.” He said. “I won’t be the one that corrupts the hope everyone here needs. Even if he were interested.”

    “‘If’!” Varric muttered under his breath. “Suit yourself, Sparkler. Just, two things before I go back to minding my own business:

    “One: All these little tallies in my book aren’t going to change the fact that, in the end, the Inquisitor is going to have to face Corypheus again. I’ve seen what happens to enough heroes to be wary of waiting for an after-battle happy ending.”

    “And the second?” asked Dorian, voice as light as his eyes were dark.

    “Everything Trevelyan’s got right now, good and bad, was chucked at his head with the expectation that he’d catch it and keep going. Very few people have actually asked him what he _wants_.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to a tendency to explore and finish sidequests before tackling main storyline, this actually happened to my Inquisitor, and he was level ridiculously over-powered for the rest of the game. Also, the Great Bear story is entirely true.


	4. I Swear That Cliff Wasn't There 5 Minutes Ago

  
    Trevelyan’s ability to forget that they had a map was among his more adorable - if frustrating - qualities. It exasperated Cassandra and Vivienne to no end, amused Blackwall and Sera, and was of no visible consequence to Solas, Cole, or Varric.  Dorian and Bull were content to forgive considering how happy he looked to randomly find various points of interest and more challenging things to fight, respectively.

    By this time, the Inquisitor had his party tactics orchestrated like a work of art. Nothing seemed to phase him beyond the occasional resigned sigh whenever they crested a ridge and found a high dragon’s nest or, in this case, crossed paths with a pair of giants while lost in the Emerald Graves.  Two giants were, on their own, well within their capability if fought cautiously.

    The herd of bronto that the Iron Bull accidentally managed to provoke on the other hand... not so much. One of the creatures wandered into the middle of the fight with no apparent concern for the flying boulders or large pieces of metal flashing through the air. The Bull clipped a bronto on a backswing, and that was all it took to start the stampede.

    Cole disappeared, and it took a moment to realize that it wasn’t the spirit’s stealth to blame, but that he’d been knocked unconscious and tossed up against some rocks. Dorian couldn’t do much about it at the time; he had to give up trying to see the Inquisitor in all the chaos to climb on another rocky outcropping so he didn’t get trampled as well. In the time it took him to get to a safe height, Bull got caught between a bronto and a giant and did not get back up.

    “So much for the heavy hitter,” the mage sighed.

    The Inquisitor was holding out, barely. Brontos kept charging into his back when he tried to block the giant. Dorian threw a barrier over him and started the arduous task of reviving their fallen teammates. Bull and Cole were inconveniently too far apart to get at the same time, and he prioritized the crowd-curbing skills that came with Bull’s axe while trying not to feel guilty about leaving Cole curled up on the far side of the rocks.

    He threw weaker bolts of raw elemental magic as he tried to catch his breath, restructuring spells in the back of his mind and readying to cast them again. Barrier was primed and cast just in time to keep the Inquisitor from becoming paste under the giant’s rock, but the drain to his mana delayed the lightning cage he wanted to drop on the brontos, and Bull fell under the stampede again.

    “ _Venhedis_ ,” Dorian growled. He knocked back a lyrium potion and grimaced at the hateful taste it left on his tongue. It was better than having to fall back on stave fighting, but only barely, and only because his staff wouldn’t do a damn thing against a bronto. He raised the lightning cage to paralyze the herd, then shot a jolt of pure spirit magic straight into the giant. He stepped back, counted down with a grin, and then detonated that power in an explosive burst that showered bits across the clearing.

    Trevelyan turned and shot him a grateful smile, and two terrible things happened to restore balance to a world in which Dorian was not allowed to have nice things.

    On the left, the cage paralyzing the brontos expired, allowing them to charge the rock where Dorian stood. A couple thousand-plus pounds of angry beast hitting the stone was enough to knock him off balance, and the step back he took to try and compensate came down farther than he was expecting, throwing him fully into a fall.

    On the right, the second giant decided to take revenge on the Inquisitor, and Trevelyan had to turn and face it, depriving Dorian of even one last look of his face.

    It was a long fall - they found a dead body at the bottom of this area earlier, and Dorian realized he must have been standing in the same place the woman had been before she fell, too.

    He had a moment to regret, not long enough for more than fulminous ifs and should-haves.

    He had a moment to command, the impression of of his will as deep as it was desperate:

**GO TO HIM.**

    He had half a moment to wish, Trevelyan’s given name held like a prayer in his mouth, something sacred he would betray and profane by speaking aloud and so he kept silent--

    And then he hit the ground.

  
    Inquisitor Trevelyan took great comfort in the sudden storm of spells that sizzled around him as he strove to keep the giant from advancing. Bull and Cole rejoined the fight, and barriers wrapped around them like the most intimate of embraces. They tore down their opponent, and the smell of ozone and burnt meat reassured them that no brontos would be running them down from behind.

    Only once he was able to take a breath and _think_ again did Trevelyan remember that just because there was magic in the air, it didn’t mean Dorian was safe. He felt the hope that his mage regained his balance crumble, and it vanished entirely when he turned around and saw the simulacrum standing on Dorian’s rock.

    There was no sign of Dorian himself.

    “Maker, no,” Trevelyan gasped, running over to the cliff.

    This time, when the simulacrum reached for him, it caught his arm and steadied him on the uneven surface of the stone. It tingled through his armor, as if there was no heavy plate blocking skin contact, and Trevelyan looked at it, surprised.

    The simulacrum wore Dorian’s smile, the fond, open one that enunciated every nuance of his feelings. It was an expression he’d seen many times, and hoped to see many more, but not like this.

    The spirit never stayed this long before. It never touched anyone, either, and that filled Trevelyan with dread - not at the spirit copy itself, but at what that could mean for the mage who called it.

    “Is he--” Trevelyan’s voice failed him, and his gaze drifted to the cliff. From this angle, he couldn’t see over the side; too many shrubs blocked his view and made the footing treacherous. The simulacrum shook its head and squeezed his arm. He could feel it through the armor, strange as it was. “Can you bring him back up? Or will that hurt him worse?” This question was met with a tilt of the head, considering while trying to comprehend.

    “It wants to help,” said Cole, but he, too, sounded confused. “It’s like, but not like; similar but not enough. It feels--” The simulacrum turned towards him, and for the first time its expression was not one of Dorian’s. It was too old, too deep, too extensive for anything human. Cole gasped a little and ducked his head so that his hat covered his face.

    “Cole?” Trevelyan glanced back. His companion shook his head.

    “It will help. It wants to help. It wants so much, but does not desire. It will help,” came the muffled voice from beneath the hat.

    Trevelyan returned his full attention to the simulacrum. He took hold of the hand on his arm, clasping it the way the most desperate supplicants caught him when he accepted their quests.

    “Can you help? Please?”

    The simulacrum gave him a smile that had never graced Dorian’s lips and nodded.  
 

     
    They all remembered watching mages rebuild bridges out of fallen stones, grand and sweeping gestures swathed in raw power too primordial for spell names. It was odd to watch the simulacrum go through the same motions when the magic it used was far subtler - smoother - like water instead of fire. It coaxed a chunk of earth below them free and to the top of the cliff, presenting Dorian’s unconscious body like a delicacy on a platter. Trevelyan swallowed his initial urge to run over to the mage and waited until the simulacrum settled the lift on the grass.

    “Thank you,” he said, squeezing the spectral hand between his and completely missing the look on the spirit’s copied face as he raced to Dorian. The Iron Bull followed him and helped him hold all the potions he intended to shove down the mage’s throat, but Cole stayed back and watched the simulacrum. It stared at the hand Trevelyan clasped with a look of poorly disguised wonderment; Dorian’s face was made to proclaim his feelings so perspicuously that his words had to bluster twice as loud to cover them, and the spirit had none of those. It curled the hand close to its chest, and then it vanished, leaving only the echo of an audible sigh on the wind.

  
    Dorian opened his eyes and blearily stared up at Trevelyan’s face.

    “Have I died and been rewarded for all my good deeds? I must have been very good - but of course I am.”

    “You’re not allowed to die on my watch,” the Inquisitor said firmly, trying to make him drink another health potion. “Or off my watch. None of you are.”

    “I’m fine, I’m fine,” the mage batted away the bottle. “I’m not the one who had to stand against a giant and a herd of angry bronto.”

    “No, you just fell off a massive cliff and nearly broke every bone in your body.” Trevelyan said. His voice was strained, and the hand holding the unfinished potion shook slightly.

    “It will take more than that to keep someone of my caliber down.” Dorian said, aiming for boastful but falling short and landing in something akin to promissory.

    Trevelyan exhaled slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, but ended up exhaling instead.

    “Good,” he said at last, softly. “Good.”  



	5. Fixing Cullen's Damn Roof and Other Impossible Oddities

  
  
    It was nice to come back to Skyhold for longer than it took the Inquisitor to unload their inventory and check in with the rest of the Inner Circle. Messages tended to build up, though, and the trio of advisors looked ready to try and tie Trevelyan to the desk long enough for him to at least make a dent in the paperwork before letting him loose on Thedas again.

    Dorian settled into the chair in his nook of the library and examined the stacks of books, trying to recall where he was in his research. Above, Leliana’s birds chattered to each other. Below, Solas continued to silently record the Inquisition’s history on the walls. Somewhere beyond, various people shuffled through the library, moving books and information. He tried to concentrate, but the sun was warm, and the chair was soft. His fingers drifted across the leather cover of one book and stilled halfway.

    His head nodded.

        His eyes closed.

            His breathing slowed.

    Dorian slept.

  
    On the other side of the fort, Commander Cullen sat at his desk and tried to make some headway in his own pile of reports without surrendering to the ache that threatened to split his head open from the inside. The mountain’s chill permeated his office and even helped when the headaches were mild, but on the worst days, when the withdrawal drained him and left him feeling like a wrung out piece of worn-out leather, the cold was just one more thing trying to erode his willpower. The hole in his quarters above probably didn’t help, but he had been steadfastly ignoring its existence since their arrival, and he had no intention of capitulating now.

    It was not, perhaps, the wisest solution, or even the one best accommodating his long-term health, but it was the most pragmatic for the Inquisition. There were a dozen other requisitions that needed to be attended first; refugees who needed housing, soldiers who needed arming, businesses doing actual trade and all manner of overlooked workers who needed the raw fundament to do their duties and support the Inquisition in ways that history would completely forget despite their vitality. No matter what Trevelyan said about there being enough workers to spare for fixing that tower, Cullen knew that it meant pulling people off of other tasks, and he could wait.

    He rubbed at his eyes for the momentary relief the sensation provided, and colors swam across his vision as he opened them again. One in particular seemed especially bright, as if something outside his window glowed in the middle of the day.

    Then a sudden noise startled him, and he jumped to his feet. It sounded like stone and timber moving. Was the hold under attack?

    But no, the sound was localized; contained, even, directly above him. He moved over towards the ladder that led to his quarters. Through the gap he could see the roof awash with magic, but to his surprise the thatch and beams came together in repair rather than apart in destruction. He waited until it was quiet. Then he climbed up. The massive hole was gone; though the patch job was less than professional, it seemed stable to his admittedly untrained eye.

    He slid back down the ladder and checked the three doors to his office. Two guards waited outside the northern door, and they saluted him.

    “Did either of you see any of the mages up here?” He asked.

    “No, ser. Not today, ser.”

    “So neither of you were concerned about the racket above your heads just now?”

    “Not really, ser? We get lots of strange noises out here, especially with all the construction around. We just figured we’d ignore it unless we heard screaming.”

    Cullen regarded them with the keen despair of a commander who had just discovered the persons of his crew who would, in one of Varric’s novels, inevitably fumble some important point of defense in an innocent and humorous manner so that the story’s hero could make the authorities look like fools and get away with it because no one was actually hurt in the end. His only hope was that, as the most likely hero of this time around, Trevelyan had none of Hawke’s mischievous streak. He wanted just once to make it out of these world-shaking events with his dignity in tact.

    “One of you go find an architect, will you? I need someone to take a look at the roof up here so I can make sure it’s not going to fall on my head tonight.”

    Withdrawal headache forgotten by the much more manageable headache of future trainings, he headed back inside to deal with his paperwork.    


    In the library, Dorian woke up from his nap and chided himself for wasting valuable research time. There was a sandwich on a plate atop the nearest stack of books and instructions from Trevelyan to remember to take breaks.  
    Dorian read the note fondly and folded it up, slipping it between the pages of the book at hip. Every time the holster clinked or bounced against his thigh, he smiled.  
  
  
    The next day, he made it halfway through a dry and poorly written tome before nodding off again.  
    

    People in the garden were surprised to see the Tevinter mage standing in front of the central statue, regarding it and the pilgrims around it with a sort of pleased curiosity. Witnesses also said he was glowing and transparent, but he _was_ a Tevinter mage, and no one took those to be too far out of the ordinary. After all, the Inquisitor’s hand glowed green and closed rifts, and his companions included an admitted Ben-Hassrath, a manifested spirit, a Seeker, a First Enchanter, a Grey Warden, a hobo apostate, and Sera. Especially Sera.

  
    For all they knew, he was supposed to do that.     

  
    Later, Trevelyan would admit to Cullen that they may have become too well adjusted to impossible things happening in Skyhold.

  
    A few days later, the Inquisitor was still up to his waist in paperwork he’d avoided while galavanting across Orlais, but not quite finished enough to make a break for it yet. Dorian finished refining a safer application of his Haste spell that would extend the duration without putting stress on the rest of reality or reacting poorly with any present rifts, but it was exhausting work, and he found himself losing moments, or even the occasional hour to sleep’s demands.

    Genius required many sacrifices, and he was content to pay them as long as they were only at his own expense. The reward was a safer Inquisitor, and a safer Inquisitor made for a safer Inquisition, which made for a safer Thedas. He could show them all that Tevinter still had the potential to do good in the world.

    A glance outside the window told him it was still midday, much too early to properly retire, so he put away his research and tried to stretch the stiffness from his joints.

    Maybe some tea would help. He probably ought to eat something while he was at it, lest the Inquisitor be forced to leave more notes.

    He headed for the kitchens with the intent to charm the cook, but only made it halfway down the stairs before meeting Josephine on her way up. She smiled at him, and a lifetime’s worth of Tevinter politicking had him reflexively tensing up. When an Antivan smiled like that, it was a trap. When an Ambassador smiled like that, it was a precursor to your concession. When an Antivan Ambassador smiled the way Josephine smiled at him right then, it was time to run away.

    Dorian turned on his heel, fully intent on jumping the railing and cutting through Solas’ hall as he’d seen Trevelyan do, but Josephine caught him with a sunny, “Lord Dorian!”

    He knew that tone. That was the deadly, “You Are In So Much Trouble, Apologize Now And Maybe We’ll Consider Time Off For Good Behavior Sometime Next Century” tone. He winced, covered it with a sigh, and turned to meet the Ambassador with all the charm he had been saving.

    “Ambassador Josephine! How are you today?”

    “Quite well; busy, of course, but well. And yourself?”

    “Ah, you know what they say; no rest for the wicked.”

    Josephine’s smile sharpened.

    “And are you quite wicked, Lord Dorian?” There was a hook there; he could hear it, he could see it, but he didn’t know why.

    “Well, no more than usual.” He blinked. And he’d been trying so hard not to actively antagonize the less Tevinter-friendly people around Skyhold. He never forgot the pained look on Trevelyan’s face after Mother Giselle expressed her concern over his ‘influence’.

    “Just how much wickedness is usual for you?” Josephine’s smile softened again. Her dark eyes quickly took note of his visible exhaustion and the slight slump of his shoulders before he reconstructed his composure with suavities.

    “It depends entirely on who you ask,” he replied airily.

    “Some of the workers around Skyhold have requested that I ask you to stop sneaking up behind them,” she said.

    “Sneaking sounds more like Cole’s thing than mine,” he frowned, “and I’ve spent most of the last few days up here. If I startled anyone, I have no recollection of it.”

    Josephine sighed.

    “I did consider that as well, especially given what ‘you’ were reported to say that startled them, but they were all quite certain it was you.”

    “Perhaps Sera has conscripted him to some sort of prank?” Dorian shrugged. “He does like to help.”

    “Perhaps. I will see if I can find him. Thank you for your assistance, Lord Dorian.”

    He nodded as she headed back down the stairs, and then a thought flickered across his tired mind.

    “Josephine? What was it I was supposed to have said to all these startled workers?”

     She turned back to face him. The question cleared the last traces of suspicion from her face.

    “You admired their hard work,” she said, “and thanked them for their devotion to the Inquisition.”

  
    It bothered him, though he was too exhausted to give it more than a fraction of his attention. In his efforts to perfect Haste, he had already condensed several extra hours into his already filled days, and it wasn’t an even easy to work with the mere theory. The combination of stresses made his brain hurt if he tried to hold onto anything more complex than the actual present he was currently in, rather than the countless alternate futures and possible pasts he had to manage. He determined to figure it out on the morrow, and somewhere after that decision he ended up in the tavern with the Iron Bull and Varric.  
  
    He was asleep halfway through his first ale.

    Varric noticed first, mostly because Dorian sat on the Bull’s blind side while the dwarf was across the table.

    “Sparkler’s usually got better tolerance than this,” he said quietly.

    “Ah, let him sleep,” Bull replied, just as soft. “He’s probably pushing himself too hard again. Doesn’t know his own limits - or rather, doesn’t accept them. I’ll carry him back to his quarters when we’re done if he doesn’t wake up on his own.”  
    

    Upstairs, Cole listened to the hurts around Skyhold and made plans to help. Something glowing caught his eye, and he looked over to see Dorian’s simulacrum standing next to him. It wore the smile Dorian tried to hide whenever Trevelyan did something kind. Trevelyan did that a lot, though, and despite the constant practice, Dorian was no better at concealing the look.

    “Hello,” Cole said. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

    The simulacrum said,

        “Why not?”  



	6. Sleeping Beauty Sends a Stand-In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also known as, "Everyone Else Is Doing It, Why Can't I?" or "Is That Supposed To Happen?"

    Trevelyan put down his quill and looked up at his advisors, eyes hopeful. 

    “Thank you, Inquisitor. That should take care of it.” Leliana said, a smile curling her lips. “Do say hello to Dorian for me, will you?” 

    A flush spread across Trevelyan’s face and highlighted his scars and tattoos alike. 

    “You know, if you came back to handle this more often, it would not build up so.” Josephine said as she collected the sheaves and tapped them into more orderly stacks. Over her shoulder, Cullen caught his eye and mouthed, “run!” Trevelyan took the other warrior’s advice and fled while the spymaster and the ambassador laughed behind him. 

    With a spring in his step, he bounded up the stairs to the library and eagerly looked for Dorian. But there was no Dorian there. The books were neatly re-shelved or stacked out of the way. There were no notes lying around, no bits of magical paraphernalia half-fiddled with and half-forgotten. There wasn’t even a sign of someone’s passing through to rile him up with rumors or misinformation. 

    The nook was utterly devoid of Dorian. 

    Trevelyan’s face fell, and he considered his options. He took the shortcut to Solas’ study.

  
    The elven mage didn’t flinch anymore when the Inquisitor dropped in, but he did frown as the man nearly knocked over some of the paints. 

    “Sorry,” Trevelyan said. 

    “What can I do for you, Inquisitor?” 

    “Have you seen Dorian recently?” 

    “Not today, no.” Solas shook his head. “But I admit I have not paid overmuch attention to his comings and goings. He’s been wrapped up in his research, and I in mine.” 

    Curiosity piqued, and Trevelyan leaned towards Solas’ desk. Solas’ studies were always fascinating to hear, better than any story he remembered from childhood because of the sheer scope of possibility they presented. 

    “What are you researching now?” 

    “There’s a strange power around here, but it’s moving around and not easy to track.” Solas said, spreading his long hands across a hastily sketched map of the hold that was dotted with smudges of colored inks. “It’s been increasing in intensity and duration, though, and I suspect I’ll be able to make contact soon, at the very least to study properly.”  

    “Is it a spirit?” Trevelyan perked up considerably. “A friendly one, like Cole?” 

    “Possibly,” said Solas, “but not necessarily like Cole. His situation is rather unusual. It could be something drawn to the anchor from the other side, or it could be something else entirely.” 

    “I’d like to meet more friendly spirits.” He paused a thoughtful moment, and then concern creased his face again. “Vivienne, Cassandra, and Bull aren’t too fond of them, though. I don’t want them to get upset.” 

    “We’ll have to see when it stabilizes.” Solas shrugged. “As is, there’s little to be done now. I can’t see any pattern to these readings as of yet.” 

    “I’ll leave you to your work, then.” Trevelyan smiled weakly and ducked out of the room.  
  


    He caught Cassandra outside the tavern, relentlessly hacking at a training dummy with no remorse for the effect the sound of her strikes would have on anyone inside with a hangover. 

    “Hi Cassandra,” he said between her swings. “Been here long?” 

    “No, I did not see Dorian leave the tavern this morning,” she said. Her expression was a scowl when she spoke, but a smirk appeared as Trevelyan blushed. She delivered an upwards slash that completely removed the dummy’s fake head and knocked it against Sera’s window. Sera retaliated by throwing open said window and lobbing back a mix of stale, burnt biscuits and foul obscenities. 

    “Some people are tryin’ to sleep!” the archer snapped. 

    “It’s almost noon.” Cassandra replied evenly, blocking the barrage with her shield. 

    “What’s that got to do with why you’re chucking things at my window? What kind of arse goes around throwing things?” 

    “ _You_ are throwing things at _me,_ ” the Seeker pointed out. “And you are hitting the Inquisitor, who has done nothing to deserve it.” 

    Sera paused and blinked down at Trevelyan. 

    “And what’s he doing up at this hour?” 

    “Most people are.” Cassandra snorted. “But _he_ is looking for the Tevinter. Have you seen Dorian?” 

    Sera smiled, a look that usually preceded some wealthy noble losing a good deal of coin, prestige, and pants. 

    “Bit early for that, innit?” She waggled her eyebrows and leaned over the sill. “You going to just find a closet or something?” 

    “I, uh,” Trevelyan stammered. “I wanted to talk with him.” 

    “Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it,” she cackled. “Bull dropped him off in his quarters last night. Magey-bits fell asleep pretty early.” 

    “Thank you,” Trevelyan nodded. “Sorry for disturbing your rest.”  
  


    He left the courtyard with as much dignity as he could muster, blushing with Cassandra and Sera’s knowing smirks burning through his back. He calmed down until he reached the stairs to the sleeping quarters and managed to work his nerves into a state again by the time he was in front of Dorian’s rarely used room. The mage spent a mind-boggling amount of time in the library and working the oddest hours. What if he was asleep, like Sera? He certainly _ought_ to rest more. 

    On the other hand, suggested a little inner voice that was surely unbecoming of the Herald of Andraste, if he woke Dorian up, he might get to see the man all sleep-rumpled and disheveled. Even camping in the middle of nowhere, Dorian always managed to look completely put together. 

    Well, all he could do was try. 

    Trevelyan knocked on the door lightly, just in case Dorian was still dozing but not quite sleeping proper. A moment passed, and he knocked a little louder, just in case he was too quiet the first time. 

    Still no answer. 

    Maybe he already left for the day and Trevelyan just missed him? Either that, or he was clearly in much needed sleep. He decided to look around more and come back later.  
  
      
    In the garden alcove, Cullen sat waiting at the chess table, idly considering opening strategies. His usual opponents all had their own styles of play: Trevelyan was surprisingly defensive for a man who charged dragons, Dorian tended to open strong and fall back on more conservative plays and more creative cheats, while Leliana brought a completely different strategy depending on who he had played before her, also peppered with tricks. It would take careful consideration on how to proceed. 

    Something luminous caught on the edge of his peripheral vision, and he looked up as that something moved forward and settled into the chair across from him. Every Templar-trained nerve in his body sang with immediate tension and danger. It looked like Dorian, a perfect copy down to the snake-themed buckles and fiddly little ties, but the entity was transparent, given shape only by rippling magic. 

    “Sorry I’m late,” it said in Dorian’s voice, casual and unconcerned. “It’s so hard to keep track of time.” 

    Cullen’s gaze darted over the rest of the garden. There were a lot of people there, and they stared openly with no small trepidation, waiting for his response. He could - and wanted to - leap from his seat, decry the demon or abomination or whatever it was, and grab the nearest Templar still using lyrium to do a Spell Purge or -if he was lucky- use Wrath of Heaven. But that would cause panic, and people would be hurt in the chaos that ensued, and the last thing the Inquisition needed now was to weaken their image by overreacting to another spirit showing up to ‘help’ if it wasn’t actually hostile. 

    Curse Trevelyan’s fondness for Cole, anyway. 

    With calm he did not feel, he moved the first piece on the board. People took this as a sign that all was well: if the Commander wasn’t concerned, why should they be? He was, after all, Templar trained, and if he could play a game with the glowing man, they could get about their business as well. 

    ‘Dorian’ reached out and mirrored his move on the other side of the board, looking exceptionally pleased with himself even for Dorian’s tendency towards vanity. Cullen’s brow furrowed. He moved another piece and was imitated again, and another, and another. The real Dorian never copied moves and never would have fallen for such a simple strategy. He raised his eyes but not his head, glaring up. 

    “Checkmate,” he said, and then dropped his voice lower into a quiet but fierce growl. “Incidentally, if you’ve hurt Dorian, there’s no power in the world on either side of the Fade that will stop the Inquisitor from tearing you apart.” 

    The copy laughed, the same amused-but-unimpressed sound that Dorian himself employed when threatened offhand. 

    “Why would I hurt him?” It said. “I am here on his behalf.” The spirit stood, grinning down at the board with Dorian’s fond smile. “Though not, I see, on behalf of his chess record. Good day, Commander.” 

    And then it was gone. 

  
    Trevelyan scoured the whole fort and ended up back in front of Dorian’s door. He had a tray of food, a bottle of wine, and more concern for the mage’s health than concentration for anything else. 

    “Dorian?” He knocked and received no answer. “Dorian, you missed breakfast and lunch. Remember what I said about taking breaks? Sleep is good, but you need to eat, too.” Nothing. He went for the handle. It was unlocked. “Dorian, I’m coming in.” 

    Trevelyan stepped inside. The room was dimly lit by the early evening light. There was a shape on the bed, not motionless, but nearly so, shifting only in deep, slow breaths. The Iron Bull was kind enough to remove Dorian’s boots and unclasp the books from their holsters, but considerate enough to leave the man in the rest of his clothes so as not to cross boundaries. 

    “Dorian?” Trevelyan called to him. No response. “Dorian!” He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed the man’s bare shoulder. It was cooler than usual, not dangerously so but certainly more than Dorian would have preferred in wakefulness. A solid shake got no reaction, and Trevelyan leaned in closer, seeking signs of poison. He pried open one of the mage’s eyes, only to flinch back in shock at the flickers of magic that played underneath the lid. 

    “Inquisitor.” Leliana’s voice preceded her as she stepped out of a shadow, untouched by the sunbeams by the door. “We have a problem--” 

    Trevelyan put his hand on Dorian’s chest and let the strong beat under his fingertips comfort him a little. He turned to meet her surprised stare and woefully settled into the stoicism the rank required. 

    “What is it?” He demanded. 

    She gestured to Dorian’s sleeping form. 

    “Considering this development? Probably not good.” 

    The Inquisitor sighed. 

    “When is it ever?”  
  



	7. Three's a Party, Eleven's a Crowd

    The simulacrum sat in Dorian’s chair in the library, reading a book resting open on the stack and wearing such an accurate copy of Dorian’s “This Book Is Trash And I’d Like To Throw It Across The Room” expression that every page turn was met with the expectation of incoming projectiles. The rest of the inner circle gathered around the nook and lent some air of privacy through sheer breadth of shoulders, but they all turned expectantly to the Inquisitor when he strode up the library stairs. The simulacrum looked up at him too, and it smiled. It was a beatific smile, the kind Trevelyan longed to see aimed at him from Dorian’s real face, and it stung a little that it was the simulacrum delivering it. 

    “Inquisitor,” the simulacrum said as it rose from the chair. 

    “Is he sick? Poisoned? Cursed?” The Inquisitor asked, almost brusquely but for the concern that gentled his tone. 

    “No,” said the spirit.

    “Still hurt from our last mission? Maker, I should have made him see the healers. Of course healing potions won’t fix everything--” 

    “No wounds,” the spirit said, “nor damage, save that with which he came to you.” 

    The Inquisitor’s face went ashen with the memory of Felix and the countless kinds of lingering maladies that could plague a person. 

    “Darkspawn taint? Remnant of that damn ritual--?” 

    “Whole and hale, merely sleeping,” said the spirit. It waved a hand as if writing off some inconsequential detail. 

    “Why won’t he wake up?” 

    “I’m seeking,” it said, as if those two words answered everything. 

    “I don’t understand,” the Inquisitor pleaded. 

    “Don’t bother asking it questions, my dear,” said Vivienne, her posture resolute but her eyes wary. “They all talk in riddles and half-truths. Best let one of us send it on its way, or get a Templar.” 

    “I could Purge it, if necessary,” Cassandra said, watching the simulacrum for any sign of resistance or hostility. It rolled its eyes, Dorian-like but more subtle than the original ever bothered to be. 

    “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” interjected Solas. “Inquisitor, you seem familiar with this entity, correct?” 

    Trevelyan nodded, guiltily remembering he rarely took Solas and Dorian out together after a few incidents of not-so-friendly party banter left the latter almost brooding for days. 

    “It’s Dorian’s simulacrum,” he said. “He told me it copied him and would stand in for him when he couldn’t fight. It’s shown up before, but always during combat, when he was unconscious.” 

    “It’s obviously copied him to an incredible level of detail, and it may be continuing to do so in order to keep this shape and mannerisms,” said Solas. “At the very least, the connection is maintained by Dorian’s consciousness, or lack thereof. It is here, so he is not. A Spirit Purge, while brutally effective, could have catastrophic backlash to Dorian as well. At worst, such a traumatic severance in this state might kill him.” 

    “We can--” Cassandra stopped as Solas pointed to Trevelyan, who looked absolutely stricken and grief-sick. Her mouth thinned to a grimmer line. “We cannot sit here and do nothing. It may not be a traditional abomination, but it is still a spirit exerting influence over a powerful mage. Can you not dispel it?”

    “It will take time,” Solas said. “Necromancy is not my preferred field, and I will have to figure out exactly what he did that allowed this result to happen.” 

    “Leave it to the ‘Vint to make a magical mess for everyone else to clean up,” the Iron Bull sighed, sounding more resigned than irritated. 

    “Sorry, can I shoot it or what?” Sera asked, shifting nervously as she glared at the simulacrum. It folded its arms and tilted its head at her, blandly disappointed the way Dorian always got when Sera dismissed his contributions. 

    “No!” Trevelyan snapped. “No one’s shooting anyone with anything. The library is a no-shooting location.” 

    Everyone started talking at once.

    “My dear,” said Vivienne, “the demon--” 

    “Inquisitor,” said Cassandra, “the spirit--” 

    “--Dorian may be dreaming in the Fade--” continued Solas, almost to himself.

    “--going to be able to get him out of there?” Blackwall asked, ignored by the elf mage. 

    “--can’t we just shoot it? That always makes ‘em go pop--” Sera complained. 

    “--eye on the Boss, since it’s supposed to be for combat--” Bull muttered to Cullen, who nodded. 

    “I’ll have a word with the patrols--” 

    “--I knew a Spirit Healer, once, in a similar circumstance--” Leliana mused. 

    “--discreet inquiries to certain individuals in Nevarra--” Josephine added.

    “--breathe, Trevelyan, that’s it, in and out--” said Varric, always the voice of reason, one of the few who remembered to ask-- him and Dorian, and now--

  
    “Worried, waiting, wrong side of the mirror, words that went unsaid but weren’t unfelt, wish not pursued but not unwanted, how will I know if I never get to ask the question, what can I keep if I never get to try and hold?” Cole’s voice spilled like heart’s blood, and the deep, pervading ache of yearning silenced all other voices. The Inquisitor was too distressed to even blush; he just closed his eyes. 

    “Yes, thank you, Cole.” He sighed. His shoulders sagged under the weight of the pitying stares of his companions. “Do _you_ know what the spirit is seeking, or whatever it is that it wants?” 

    “It wants to meet its purpose and halt its opposition. It seeks to serve, not rule, though chalice collects more water than crown, it does not command, but request, barter, mutualism in action. It wants to help, not hurt.” 

    “How do you know that?” Cassandra inquired. 

    “Did you dig through its mind, too?” added Vivienne. 

    “I asked,” said Cole, reproachful and wounded at the same time. “The way you keep telling me to. When I saw it before. It came to me, saw we were alike, but not the same.” 

    “You spoke with it before?” Solas raised an eyebrow. 

    “It is Devotion,” Cole said, smiling. 

    “Dorian--” Trevelyan swallowed hard, then made himself face the simulacrum. “You’re a Spirit of Devotion?” 

    The spirit bowed with a flourish the way Dorian did when they first met in the Chantry at Redcliffe. 

    “Devotion to what?” Varric muttered under his breath, but the spirit heard him anyway and spread its arms wide. It stepped forward towards Trevelyan, unconcerned by the tension that gripped the assembled, and reached a hand to his face. 

    The Inquisitor didn’t flinch. He barely even blinked. He settled into the stillness that crept over him whenever he had to sit in that ridiculous throne in the main hall, donning an aura of stoicism that put stone to shame. 

    The simulacrum stopped, fingertips mere inches from Trevelyan’s cheek, an intimate gesture made obscene by the presence of an audience. 

    “You have got to be shitting me,” the Bull gaped, shattering the moment. 

    “Well, that’s going to complicate things,” Blackwall groaned. 

    “Oh my,” Josephine gasped. “Oh. Oh!” 

    “We could use this,” Leliana mulled over the idea. “It would not be the first spirit I have seen drawn to a cause, though the last one under rather different circumstances.” 

    “It’s your decision, Inquisitor,” Cullen added. 

    “No smiting,” said Trevelyan in his ‘passing judgment’ tone. “It’s here to help the Inquisition, so I’m going to give it the same opportunity I gave everyone else. But I want Dorian back, and in the same condition we got him in. Look into that and give me options.” 

    “Arrogant and sarcastic, huh?” Varric shook his head and gave him a smirk as he headed back down the stairs. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Your Inquisitorialness.” 

    “I will begin research on a safe dispelling immediately,” Solas nodded and, rather pointedly, did not take the shortcut to his study. “I’m sure it will be useful with our many Rift encounters as well.” 

    “For your sake, my dear, I hope you know what you’re doing. Take care.” Vivienne said. 

    “Don’t know what good I’ll be on this, but I’ll stand by your decision, whatever you need,” said Blackwall. “You haven’t led us wrong yet.” 

    “Dorian’ll owe us one after this, yeah?” Sera perked up at that thought. “Right then. Let’s go find a way to wake him up.” 

    “ _With_ his brain still in tact,” Trevelyan called after her.   
    “Yeah, yeah, and all the other bits you like so much!” She shouted back, probably loudly enough that the random Orlesian nobles in the hall were now privy to the conversation. 

    Cassandra clapped him on the shoulder as she passed. Her stern face softened to something sympathetic before crystallizing with determination, and the three advisors followed her out.   
  


    That left the Inquisitor with a strange parody of his preferred field party: the Iron Bull, Cole, and Dorian’s simulacrum. His chest constricted. He’d rather have Dorian, and suddenly the sight of the spirit wearing his face taunted him with what he couldn’t have. 

    A moment passed in silence. Bull and Cole watched him, he and the simulacrum - Devotion - watched each other, and none of them moved. 

    “What is it you feel you need to do here?” The Inquisitor asked at last. His voice was a low rumble, the warning of distant thunder and deep feelings buried under an impassive facade. 

    Devotion’s hand moved, cupping his face without connecting, but still close enough to send shivers down his spine from the power radiating off the spirit. The Inquisitor just stared, and it dropped its hands to its side and its chin to its chest, borrowing Dorian’s vulnerability as it looked up through glowing lashes. 

    “Protect them. Protect the Inquisitor. Go to him.” It said, revealing steel in Dorian’s voice forged out of desperation and tempered with the determination to see his will done even through unconsciousness. “Is it so hard to see what is worthy of protection?” 

    The Inquisitor shivered. 

    “Lots of things are worth protecting,” he said. “Including Dorian. That’s why I’m here.” 

    “He is safe. You are not.” 

    “I rarely am,” he replied drily, “but that’s never stopped me yet.” 

    “I could help.” 

    “I appreciate that. I do. And you’re welcome to help, but you can’t keep Dorian unconscious to do it. It’s not fair to him.” 

    The spirit huffed. 

    “There are things that only Dorian can do, and things he’s going to do that he needs to do.” Trevelyan said. “If you take away that chance for him, then you’re hurting, not helping.” 

    “We stop things that hurt people,” said Cole in an unreadable tone, looking back and forth between the simulacrum and the Inquisitor. 

    “We do,” said the Iron Bull. “But the Boss takes it really personally when something hurts Dorian, and those things get stopped extra hard.” 

    The Inquisitor didn’t look away from the spirit, which regarded him with more admiration, if possible. 

    “You will shape nations and carve new worlds from the wreckage around you. How wondrous a thing you must be to change this static realm with the hope of your kind. How could any see your spark to aspire and not love you?” It said, rapturously. “All of you. All who pledged themselves to you. All who walk with you. You are dazzling. I must see you do this thing. I must see you safe to do it. When I find your heretic, I will let this one wake and follow and do as you do, and I will watch your world change. Is this... fair?” 

    “Heretic? Trevelyan frowned. “Do you mean Corypheus?” 

    “Your nemesis is part of your path.” It said, less Dorian-like, more inscrutable. “I seek the one who would swear allegiance and prove faithless. I listen, but there are so many voices. On the other side, it’s harder to keep track.” 

    “I’m helping,” added Cole. “We hear different things, but sometimes it helps.”

    “Sounds like someone’s planning an assassination.” Bull grunted. “There are worse ways to get a tip off.” 

    Trevelyan turned a wounded look to his self-assigned bodyguard. 

    “ _Dorian,_ ” he almost whimpered. 

    “Could’ve found out when someone stabbed you or blew you up.” Bull shrugged philosophically. “Think of how pissed the ‘Vint would be about that.” 

    The Inquisitor let out a frustrated sigh. 

    “How long?” he asked. “Dorian can’t just stay asleep indefinitely. How long will it take you to find this ‘heretic’?” 

    The simulacrum blinked and turned to Cole, who ducked his head. 

    “It depends,” he said, “on if you can explain time better than I can.”   
  



	8. Trevelyan Throws In The Towel

    Three days later and the Inquisitor was ready to give up. The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, dragon-slayer and giant-killer, last man standing at Haven and first blade out of the Skyhold gate when the war horn sounded, the implacable and unstoppable heart of the Inquisition... 

    Well, Trevelyan was ready to throw in the towel. 

    Not on the Inquisition itself, though he had not taken a party out since before Dorian was indisposed, but on the inhuman patience required for letting Devotion flit around Skyhold searching for the ‘heretic’ it sensed. It was bad enough he missed Dorian’s company more than he missed the weight of his favorite shield or armor, but every so often Devotion would appear before him just to tell him, “not yet,” before darting off again. He got a glimpse - just a taste, really - of the familiar features, the tone of the voice, the furrow of the brow, and then it was gone. 

    It was quickly becoming a rather effective torture technique, and he hoped Corypheus didn’t learn about it. 

  
    So far no other options proved viable. Solas remained in meditation for hours at a time, surfacing only to dive into ancient texts filled with scripts no one else alive could read. Trevelyan couldn’t even catch him in transition between the two to inquire about his progress. 

    Sera and Blackwall popped up with a foul-smelling and fouler-looking concoction they said was an old herbal remedy for drowsiness, only to realize they had no way to get him to drink it and neither had the patience to try. Then Cullen sleepily mistook it for his morning drink. 

    On the upside, it negated his lyrium withdrawal headache and he got through every report and request on his table. On the downside, he was still going through everyone else’s reports until the following morning, whereupon he passed out on Josephine’s desk and didn’t wake up again until later that evening. 

    Varric, Leliana, and Josephine sent out discrete letters to the corners of their respective networks, and each came back with more questions than they started with. 

    The Iron Bull offered one of Stitches’ potions - _poultices_ , the healer clarified - but when that failed to have any effect, he sent out letters of his own.

    Vivienne stopped in only once and early on, but she brought a sweet-smelling potion she spread across Dorian’s lips one drop at a time.

    “To keep him hydrated, and so that he doesn’t starve while you’re indulging yet another demon,” she said. “That should hold him for a while.” 

    “Thank you, Vivienne.” Trevelyan said, with such open gratefulness that she gave him a smile in return. 

    Cassandra watched Devotion around the hold, running interference with the more anxious residents. Few things seemed to put people at ease about the incandescent figure of a Tevinter mage perched on the battlements more than the Seeker’s commanding voice telling them to get on with their day.    
  


    And yet, even with all that, _after_ all that, it was the Inquisitor that was going to break. The contrast between the simulacrum, wandering the hold with a look of intense scrutiny, and Dorian’s silent body was unbearable. 

    He caught the simulacrum as it walked the ramparts, drawing it over to his path with a nod of the head. 

    “Please,” he said, voice breaking as his heart tried not to do the same. “Let him go. Give him back.” 

    The simulacrum regarded him with raised eyebrows and confusion writ plain on its borrowed face. 

    “I do believe you are under a misconception, Inquisitor,” it answered. It sounded more and more like the real Dorian and less like a copy with every passing day, and Trevelyan was more than a little afraid he was going to stop being able to tell the difference. “I haven’t taken him anywhere.” 

    “He doesn’t answer when I say his name.” Trevelyan let out a disconsolate growl. “There’s-- If I took his hand, it would be cold, and he wouldn’t be able to tell me to let go or hold tighter. I want to tell him... and he can’t hear me.” 

    “Can’t he?” said the simulacrum, half-distracted by a figure crossing the battlements towards them. 

    “So I’m asking you, because I listened to all of Solas’ stories and I believe that we don’t have to be antagonistic to each other. Please let him go.” 

    “I can’t,” the simulacrum frowned, but its attention was fully diverted. Trevelyan bit his lip and glanced at the skinny boy in mage robes who approached them, head down. His hands were in his sleeves, and some deeper intuition coiled in him; conflicting instincts of protection and self-preservation waged war even as the boy’s footsteps picked up pace. 

    “Here!” yelled Cole, appearing behind the young man in a dead run and drawing his daggers. “Here is your traitor!” 

    “No, don’t!” Trevelyan shouted, coming out of his deadlock on the defensive side and rushing forward. If Cole killed the assassin, they’d never know which of the many factions they slighted, foiled, or outright opposed was taking such aggressive actions. 

    Power suddenly surged behind the Inquisitor’s back. It cast his shadow to the far end of the ramparts and glinted off the glass flask the boy pulled from his sleeve. Trevelyan tried to move faster; unlike a blade or even a spell, a grenade could finish its work even after the user was cut down. 

      
    He had time for a frustration: even though Cole and Devotion found the traitor, it was probably too late. 

    He had time for a hope, praying to the Maker that the damage would be contained and nothing like the Kirkwall Chantry disaster. 

    He had time for a regret, folding Dorian’s name inside all the things he meant to say but never found the time, the right moment, the strength to open up that last vulnerable place the Inquisition left him, and he cradled it in his heart. 

  
    He had time for another thought entirely, which was largely ambiguous confusion as he plowed into the young man since the boy all but stopped moving. Trevelyan caught the familiar gold whirls of Dorian’s time magic and felt his chest constrict painfully in the unlikely hopes that it was his mage. 

    Cole hopped out of the way as the Inquisitor’s tackle put the assailant on the ground, side stepped the tangle of limbs, and plucked the flask out of the air where it remained after the boy let go of it in shock. 

    Trevelyan rolled to his feet in a defensive crouch, looked up to see Devotion, and immediately put himself in front of the downed boy. 

    Raw magic roiled around the simulacrum, drawn in writhing gold sigils that hung in the air around it and twisted at different speeds. Its borrowed shape flickered and blurred. Dorian’s features vanished and reappeared under a cowl, robes rippled and changed style, countless chains dripped off Devotion’s form and spun out in every direction before fading into invisibility. A huge ball of lightning coalesced above the spirit, hissing and sizzling as more power poured into it. 

    “Step out of the way, Inquisitor,” it said, sounding almost nothing like Dorian at all. “Let the faithless meet his fate.” 

    “That’s not how we do things,” said the Inquisitor, “and you know it. If you didn’t, you would have fried him already.” 

    “He would have killed you for the safe walls you gave him,” said the spirit. “For the fear that your safe walls would be another Circle, another binding to endure. You promised them equality, and he would have broken faith with your blood.” 

    “And now he’s caught,” he answered. “That means he faces judgment.” 

    “Yes! Judgment! Your will, changing the world!” 

    “No,” said Trevelyan. “Not my will. Justice. Mercy. Honor. Order. Growth.” 

    “Is that not your will?” There was nothing recognizable in the spirit now, and the magic gathered around it somehow managed to shift from lightning to fire to ice and back again. Its voice was a legion, terrifying in volume and awe-inspiring at the same time. “It’s your voice that speaks last. It’s your hand that executes. It’s your will, Inquisitor, and they follow your lead or they fall.” 

    Trevelyan, however, met this force with the same unflinching transparency that inspired them to make him Inquisitor in the first place. 

    “It’s _our_ will. All together. The Inquisition didn’t start with me, and it won’t end with me, even if I’m the one speaking. And you know this; you have to have heard it while you were listening to all these people here. We believe in the Inquisition. Just like you.” 

    Devotion said nothing - 

        -sighed-

            and seemed to fold in on itself, chains fluttering down like discarded ribbons.  
  


    Cole touched the edge of the Inquisitor’s sleeve to get his attention. 

    “You listened,” he said. “Thank you.” 

    “I think it was more yelling on my part,” replied Trevelyan uneasily. 

    “You could have stopped it in other ways, but you listened, and it remembered before it could cross a line it couldn’t undo. Your words are a shield, adamant and raised to protect others, even from themselves. He loves you for that.” 

    The change in pronouns caught Trevelyan off guard like a knife under the ribs. His throat closed up on the word ‘love’ like it was an exquisite poison that denied him air even as he gasped for another breath.  
  


    The gold bands of time magic suddenly snapped, transitioning the warped colors of the sky directly to the red and violet of sunset. 

    “My dear Inquisitor,” tsked a familiar voice, rougher from disuse but finally, _finally_ the right nuance. “Whoever it was you had explain time to my simulacrum did an abysmal job and should be ashamed. However, none of these people will confess, so I must ask you directly: which is the culprit? I shall have to take him or her to task for this misunderstanding.” 

    Trevelyan turned around.  
      
    Dorian stood on the battlement behind him, half-supported by Solas and with the rest of the inner circle and a good many others behind him. 

    “Dorian...” 

    “And you, what a mess! Haste and Slow are two entirely separate effects, you know. Complete and utterly opposite.” The Tevinter mage said hotly as he strode to face the spirit, carried entirely by his braggadocio if the sway in his step was any indication. “You had the entirety of the Inquisition alarmed, not to mention wasting an entire day’s productivity with unnecessary panic. The only consolation is that you slowed the assailant down at a far greater rate than you slowed time around yourselves, but a mess is still a mess!” 

    Trevelyan looked over to Solas for explanation, since interrupting Dorian mid-rant was something done only by people who wanted their heads bitten off. Or Bull. 

    “It looks like it attempted to cast Dorian’s Haste spell with an incorrect understanding of time,” Solas said, “and instead of speeding you and Cole up, it slowed time down for all four of you. The distortion disrupted the connection between the spirit and Dorian, and I was able to wake him.” 

    “For which I am grateful, and I _did_ thank you already, even if I had the situation entirely under control.” Dorian called back over his shoulder without actually breaking stride in his chiding of the spirit. 

    “How long was I...” Trevelyan made a vague hand motion to try and express his time-magic-induced confusion. 

    “Just for the afternoon,” Solas answered. “Once he could stand upright for more than a few moments, Dorian was able to disassemble the slowed time bubble fairly easily.” 

    Trevelyan turned his attention back to the Tevinter mage and caught the quiet undertones of his voice as his tirade wound down. 

    “Yes, yes, you did just what I asked of you. He’s as safe as he’s going to be. Back you go, now.” He gestured, and the spirit disappeared. “Thank you,” he murmured into the space left behind.  
    

    Trevelyan reviewed the considerable list of things he intended to say to Dorian when and if the other man woke up. None of them seemed to be a good choice when his voice refused to finish a sentence and unhelpfully failed him as Dorian turned, swayed, steadied himself, and smirked.  
    

    “Well, now that _that’s_ cleaned up--” 

    Trevelyan barreled into him with only slightly less force than a shield bash, wrapping him in a crushing embrace as he buried his face against Dorian’s throat. Nonsense words tumbled over his lips into tanned skin, half of them little more than the mage’s name and none of them louder than a breath. 

    “It’s all right,” Dorian answered with his hands coming to rest on Trevelyan’s back and hip. “You’re safe now.” 

    “ _I’m_ safe?” Trevelyan choked on a laugh. “Maker. I thought I was going to have to fight a spirit for your virtue.” 

    “My _virtue_ is hardly what it was after.” Dorian replied. “Yours, on the other hand... we’ll have words about you turning those pretty eyes of yours on people to get them to join the Inquisition. It’s much too effective.” 

    “No one else,” Trevelyan whispered back. “Just you.” 

    For a few precious heartbeats, neither of them said anything. 

    “Come now, Inquisitor,” Dorian cleared his throat. “Everyone’s staring, and you have an assassin to judge. If this whelp can even be called an assassin. He hardly looks old enough to be in trousers.” 

    The mage untangled himself and took a few steps away so he could poke the captive with the flat side of his staff blade. 

    Under the watchful eyes of what looked like half of Skyhold, Trevelyan conceded to his still-strangled voice and Dorian’s self-consciousness with a sigh. 

    Fine. He could handle this. He would deal with that smug Orlesian merchant who had Dorian’s amulet, and when he was done, then he and Dorian would have an explicit discussion about... this. 

    Fine.  
  



	9. The "I'm Judging You" Look

    It took surprisingly little to interrogate the young man who tried to assassinate the Inquisitor. Leliana seemed almost disappointed by how easily his composure broke, and then settled into a mix of relief and morbid amusement that he was not, in fact, part of any organized resistance to the Inquisition. 

    “His name is Faris, and he had just arrived at the Kirkwall Circle when the rebellion started, so all he knows is this war. He is at the age when seditious literature is most appealing, and idealizes the Magisterium without proper understanding of it. He is not yet wise enough to consider the ramifications of his actions and how they reflect on others,” she informed the Inquisitor. “Including, it appears, what would happen to his fellow mages if the Inquisitor who offered them an alliance were to be viciously murdered by one of their number.” 

    “Devotion said he was afraid I’d turn Skyhold into another Circle.” He looked worriedly to the northern tower, refurbished especially for the mages. “I was just trying to make them more comfortable by giving them their own space.” 

    Leliana patted him on the shoulder. 

    “The majority of them understand your intentions,” she said. “Considering you’ve given them no real restrictions and constantly ask Fiona if they’re comfortable, I think it’s safe to say that this was a unique occurrence.” 

    “I can’t seem to make anyone happy,” Trevelyan muttered. “When I close the Breach, I’ll probably get nasty letters from people who were trying to study it or were using the glow to read late at night.” 

    “They can light candles like everyone else,” she said firmly. “Besides, look at the bright side.” 

    “What bright side?” 

    “You’re finally stopped using conditional verbs. You said ‘when’, not ‘if’.” She smiled. “Cheer up, Inquisitor. You still have an amulet to deliver, yes?” 

    Trevelyan flushed. 

    “I - it was-” 

    “I will finish the investigation and report back to you tomorrow at the war table.” She smirked. “But not too early in the morning, I think.” 

* * *

 

      
    No matter how much Trevelyan hated sitting in the throne and passing judgment in the main hall, it was the Inquisitor’s job to make the final pronouncement and start making justice a reality. People would have been significantly less impressed with the man on the fancy chair if they saw him pace and ramble with his various advisors and companions before each trial, sounding out possible punishments and dismissing some suggestions immediately before backtracking and reconsidering them. 

    There was a lot of arguing about the boy, who was as Dorian observed: almost painfully young. No one actually argued for execution, much to Trevelyan’s relief, but it hung in the background like a frightening tapestry, reminding him of the possibility. 

    The remaining options seemed very bleak. Faris had it in his head that the Southern Circles would be prisons and possessed, to the frustration of every other mage in Skyhold, idolized a vision of a magocracy gleaned from the manifesto of the mage who started the Kirkwall rebellion. To Dorian’s eternal ire, Faris didn’t even have an accurate memory for the half-correct ideas in the manifesto. The Altus raged through the library, ranting half in Tevene with such vehemence that even Solas nodded sympathetically.

    On the one hand, Varric pointed out, the boy was just that: a child. It was the responsibility of adults to teach children, and the war created a shortage of proper teachers. 

    On the other hand, Vivienne was quick to point out that the concoction the boy made would have exploded disastrously had it been prepared correctly. 

    Sera delighted in pointing out that it wasn’t, but was also just as happy to suggest putting him somewhere far away, possibly with an arrow or three in his bum. 

    Someone, and by this point Trevelyan couldn’t even keep track of who, suggested making the boy Tranquil, but the Inquisitor shot that one down nearly as quickly as he did execution, leaving them all an awkward selection of options: 

    Exile, or Imprisonment. 

    Exile meant turning a barely trained mage loose on the world in the middle of a war, with demons falling from the sky on a daily basis. 

    Imprisonment meant Skyhold becoming exactly what the boy feared, at least for him, and for a very long time. 

    Neither option sat well with Trevelyan, and he argued and debated and at one point even threw his hands up and prayed before sending a delicate inquiry of his own via Josephine’s connections. 

      
    He postponed judgment three times, allaying Cullen and Cassandra’s concern by saying he was waiting for a sign.   
  
    When it came, he nearly crumpled in relief, but he stood to take the throne.   
  
    “The prisoner stands accused of attempted murder,” Josephine read off to the assembled while two Templars stood guard over the boy. “But for Your Worship’s intervention and the assistance of your companions, many could have lost their lives.” 

    Off to the side, Cole beamed at an impassive Dorian. 

    “You could have hurt a lot of people,” said the Inquisitor gravely. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?” 

    “Freedom is worth any price,” answered Faris in a shaky voice, and the Inquisitor shook his head. 

    “Freedom doesn’t excuse you from the consequences of your actions. Someone should have taught you that, but it seems there’s not enough time in war for the important lessons. And you need to learn.” There was something inexorable about him while he sat on that throne; the Inquisitor’s face was unreadable, stark and harsh for the lack of expression. 

    “And are you going to be the one to teach me?” sneered the boy, finding his anger to the consternation of the Templars. “Make me Tranquil? Or just kill me?” 

    “I banish you,” he answered, ignoring the whispers that sprang up among those watching. “To the Tevinter Imperium. I made arrangements with the Archon; you will be escorted to the border, where you will be transferred into Imperium custody. They are well equipped to handle a student of your... precociousness.” 

    Everyone not privy to the Inquisitor’s discrete messages to Tevinter gaped. It was not the first time he exiled someone, not even to the Imperium, but this was certainly less... antagonistic... than his previous judgment. 

    “While you’re there, you will learn.” The Inquisitor leaned forward, and his eyes met Faris’ with deadly severity. “I want you to learn everything you can about how the Imperium you admire works - and see where it doesn’t.” 

    “I’m not going to be your spy!” Faris squawked. 

    “Good. You’d be terrible at it.” He didn’t even blink, delivering the statement as simply as a sword strike. “You’re going there because you think it’s perfect. No place is perfect. I’m sure you’ll see when you get there. Maybe they’re doing something right, but there’s a lot that’s wrong, too. Learn. And in ten years, if we’re both still here and you think I’m doing wrong by the mages here at Skyhold, I invite you to come back and tell me how to do better. But leave the explosives behind.”

    Faris stared. So did most of the court.   
    “Traditionally, this is where the condemned acknowledges the judgment bestowed upon them,” Josephine said. “Or, as our Inquisitor is frequently more merciful than wrathful, this is the part where they thank him for his clemency and swear to apply themselves to the task set before them.”   
    Faris just continued to stare, too stunned to speak. She sighed and nodded to the Templars, who helped him rise and escorted him away.   
    Trevelyan leaned back in the throne and closed his eyes. 

  
    When he left the main hall, Dorian went with him. 

  
    Neither spoke until they stood alone in the Inquisitor’s quarters. 

    “You really used what little favor you gained with the Archon to get an education for a boy who tried to kill you?” marveled Dorian, slinking his way into Trevelyan’s personal space like a wary cat. 

    “What else would I have used it for?”

    “Traditionally, to gain _more_ favor.” 

    “You don’t want it.” 

    “No, but that doesn’t mean you won’t need it in the future.” 

    “He needs to learn,” sighed Trevelyan, “and no one down here is going to be willing to teach him after what he tried to do. Maybe if he goes north, he’ll learn to see the same things you did.” 

    “And what if he doesn’t? What if he goes full on supremacist, joins the Venatori, and comes marching back here?” 

    “Then at least he had a chance. That’s all I can give him, and more than anyone else will offer him.” 

    “Some would say it’s more than he deserves.” 

    “I believe in second chances. Redemption only counts if you make an effort to be better, after all.” 

    “As if you have any flaws that need redeeming.” 

    Trevelyan’s expression creased with pain, and he grabbed Dorian’s waist to drag him closer. 

    “I’m a coward,” he said, and Dorian had to scoff at that. 

    “You charge at massive, fire-breathing lizards while wearing a metal suit. I have empirical evidence that you don’t even flinch in the face of fear demons. If you’re a coward, there’s no such thing as courage.” 

    “I should have told you,” he went on, fingers tightening in the straps around Dorian’s torso but not moving to remove them. “It never seemed like the right time, but I should have _made_ time. I should have told you...” 

    “Told me what?” Dorian wrapped his arms around him, remembering flickers of a fireside conversation from long ago. “Tell me what you want.” 

    Trevelyan exhaled shakily into the crook of Dorian’s neck before pulling back to look him in the eye. 

    “More,” he breathed the word across Dorian’s lips. “If you want-- This is _more_. I want you to stay as long as you like. Forever, if you want.” 

    “You’re starting to sound like one of Cassandra’s saccharine books,” Dorian said, but he smiled, taking all the sting out. “Been getting tips from Varric’s best sellers?” 

    “I may have read a few, trying to find the right words.” 

    “Amatus--” the word slipped free, burning like an ancient glyph on his tongue. 

    “If that means what I hope it means, say it again.” 

    “Amatus, Amatus, Amatus.” He pressed it in kisses to Trevelyan’s face: crown, cheek, lips.   
      
    In the sacred intimacy of the moment, they spoke each other’s names, unfolding prayers of devotion answered immediately and utterly in ways no other gods would.  
  



	10. Rocks Fall. (No One Dies.)

    After all the strife, the stress, the chaos and death, the final fight with Corypheus was... not a let down, not when so many died to bring them that far, but somewhat anticlimactic. 

    The Inquisitor built himself into a living legend. The false archdemon fared no better against him and his war party than any of the high dragons they faced. Less well, in fact, since it was already wounded by Morrigan and had no dragonlings to nip at their backs. The Inquisitor's shield, the same volcanic aurum he’d carried since finding Skyhold, held fast against the would-be god, and his sword cut just as sharply through corrupted flesh as it did dragonbone. 

    His teammates fared slightly worse - none of them carried shields, but their armor was superior to the Inquisitor’s at his insistence, and they had Dorian’s barriers and the full supply of potions to help them keep doing their share of the damage. 

    “Dragon wrapped and dragon kept,” Cole half-sang to himself, smiling as a Terror’s claws skimmed over his dragonscale armor without breaking through. “Treasured, trusted, triumphant!” 

    “Cole, pay attention to the ancient magister trying to murder us,” Dorian chided, even though he threw lightning at the minions with far more ease than concern. 

    “But we’re going to win,” Cole said. “It’s all I can hear. He’s so loud, so proud, not of himself, but of us! He thinks us glorious, and he knows - without doubt, without fear, without question - we will win!” 

    Corypheus took the gloating as well as could be expected, and he tried to strike down the Inquisitor’s allies, but that shield held firm in front of them as he pressed forward, forcing the would-be god to scramble for higher and higher ground. 

    All too fast, the Inquisitor ripped the orb free of Corypheus’ control and banished him across the Fade. 

  
    Then, of course, the damn ruins started to fall out of the sky. 

  
    Getting down safely was surprisingly harder than going up. There were no more demons, but randomly falling rocks turned their descent into a dance of dodging, shielding, and outright blasting pieces of stone before they could crush the newly-triumphant heroes. 

    “If you die here, after all this, I will personally raise you from the dead just so I can kill you again!” Dorian yelled as he knocked incoming debris away from the Inquisitor. 

    “Wouldn’t that be ironic?” Bull laughed even as one of his horns scraped against a rock he didn’t sidestep as well as he should have. “If the original Big Bad ‘Vint couldn’t kill the Inquisitor, but the baby-faced modern one could?” 

    “ _Vishante kaffas_!” the mage hissed, snatching a rock out of the air above Cole and whipping it at the back of the Bull’s head. It missed, knocking away another piece of rubble, and Bull laughed louder. 

    “Rocks weren’t meant to fly here,” said Cole, slipping easily from one step to another. “They aren’t sure what they’re supposed to do now, so they go back to what they know.” 

    “Focus!” Trevelyan yelled, bracing to shrug off a boulder big enough to hit harder than a dragon kick. Dorian shattered it before it could impact, showering the area in smoking pebbles. 

    “Honestly, this is just petty and spiteful!” he growled. “I demand a higher class of enemy, one who won’t just tip the board after losing--” 

    The ground beneath him abruptly gave way, and he scrambled for firmer footing. The second’s worth of distraction cost him as a piece of falling stone hit him and knocked him out cold. 

    “Dorian!” Trevelyan yelled, vaulting to his downed mage’s side. 

    “Boss! Head’s up!” Iron Bull bellowed, and Trevelyan immediately brought his shield up over the both of them. He looked up to try and judge how much he was going to have to brace and felt dread pool in his chest. The slab that dropped towards them was massive; one of the battlegrounds from earlier, and he realized with a sinking feeling that even his shield wouldn’t keep it from crushing them.   
    

    Gold ripples warped the sky, and the falling rock slowed almost to a stop. Trevelyan didn’t even hesitate; he grabbed Dorian and started running for clear ground. Bursts of flame carved away at the earth above his head, vaporizing huge chunks until the gold light dissipated and a much smaller segment collapsed on the place they were moments earlier. 

    Trevelyan looked up and caught the gaze of the simulacrum, who winked at him and bowed before disappearing. 

    In his arms, Dorian stirred. 

    “When they tell stories of this day, tell them I fell fighting demons, not knocked about by damned rocks,” he groaned. 

    “Do you really want me to lie to future generations and deprive them of the valuable life lesson of watching their heads?” Trevelyan eased him to his feet and helped him down to solid ground, safe at last. 

    “I suppose not,” Dorian sighed. “Though I would hate for people to think my sole contribution to the Inquisition was a series of debilitating head wounds caused by rocks.” 

    Trevelyan laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his mage’s cheek. 

    “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll protect you.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True story: last part of the fight with Corypheus? He didn't even nick my Inquisitor. Huzzah for shields.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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